i've strayed out through the fog
by thequeenofokay
Summary: The dead start to rise. Skye doesn't stick around to see what happens. / zombie au.


\+ this has been posted on ao3 and tumblr for months. oops. if you wanna find everything else i've forgotten to post here, find me on tumblr at _rainward_.

\+ title from "stray ashes" by jbm

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When the dead first start to rise, Skye doesn't stick around.

The TV tells her to stay in her home, stockpile on fresh water and save up food.

She doesn't trust it.

She trusts the Rising Tide, though, and they all agree _"head west. we'll meet in LA"._

She takes a few water bottles, as much food as she can carry in her rucksack, and slides a couple of knives - the biggest ones in the kitchen - into her belt.

She finds a van - it looks a little bit old and battered, but good enough - hotwires it, and _drives_.

She keeps the radio on. Always on, quietly, and for the first few days it updates her on the virus spreading across the country, of the emergency services attempting to deal with the situation, but by the end of the week, it has lapsed into static. She keeps it on anyway, partly out of hope, and partly because the noise is comforting.

The roads are _deserted_, and she wonders if everyone really is just trying to barricade the door and wait the whole thing out.

They're sitting ducks. Skye knows survival, and she knows that waiting isn't how you do it.

She encounters one zombie on Day Four. A lone straggler wandering down the highway.

She hits it with her van and keeps driving, heart beating so hard she can hear it in her head.

She hides her new van in gas stations to sleep at night, and in the mornings raids them for all the supplies she can and piles them into the back. She's not sure she's had a proper night's sleep since this whole thing started, and she knows that soon she's going to start losing focus.

She's wakes up at the end of the first week to a scratching outside the door, and she can hear something _groaning_.

She swears under her breath. She can feel her stomach drop away as she struggles into the driver's seat.

She can see them out the window. There's at least twelve and oh fuck, fuck, she's going to have her brains eaten and she can't get the damn van to start.

It stutters into life just as a couple of zombies begin to beat their hands against the windshield. Skye floors the accelerator, sending them flying.

She doesn't stop driving all day.

She sees more of them, over the next few days, wandering through the desert, but she doesn't stop long enough for them to get near her.

She sees the odd other car, too, driving as fast as she is in the other direction, but she _never_ stops to chat. Not only might it give time for the undead to catch up on her, she knows how desperate people get in situations like that; she knows there's a risk they'd take her everything she's managed to scavenge.

And she doesn't have a death wish.

And not only is she sleep-deprived, but she's starting to have to ration food and water slowly. The shops are being cleared out by people with the same idea as her, and while there's enough at the moment, she'd rather cut down now that risk going without later.

She stops at a big store at the edge of a town. She winds down the aisles, pulling everything she can off the shelves and into her bag. Tins, mostly - they'll last.

There's a noise. A scrape, a groan, and _shit_. Zombie alert.

She pulls her knives from her belt. One from each hand. She can do this.

She glances down an aisle and it's heading straight for her. She takes a step back and, shit, there's another one. And another.

She's surrounded.

She takes a deep breath, steadies herself. She's not going to die. It'll be okay. She can get out of this.

She doesn't die.

Mostly because someone comes up behind the one nearest her and takes its head clean off, then proceeds to take care of the other two.

'Uh,' she says, as the newcomer stops for breath. He's taller than her, wearing a leather jacket and holding an axe.

Damn, she should have found an axe. That would be so much better than her measly kitchen knives.

'Thanks,' she decides. 'But I could have handled it.'

'Sure,' he says. He's still holding the axe up, suggesting he isn't off the offensive. But she's holding a knife slightly warily towards him, so she won't hold it against him if he thinks she's a threat. In fact, she might be a little bit complimented. 'You looked like you had it covered.'

She wrinkles her nose at him. She could totally have handled it.

'So,' she says. 'Are you going to mug me? Because I _will_ stab you.'

He lets his axe fall and holds his hand up in a sign of peace. 'I won't hurt you,' he says.

Skye tilts her head thoughtfully. 'I could do with someone to watch my back,' she decides, slowly slipping her knife back into her belt. 'You want to join me? I've got a van.'

His eyes light up. 'A van?' he repeats. 'Shit, I've been sleeping in a Fiat Punto for a week.'

Skye snickers. 'Yup,' she says. 'It's got cushions and everything. So are you interested?'

'Yes,' he says. 'Definitely.' He eyes her knives. 'As long as you promise not to stab me.'

'Please.' Skye rolls her eyes. 'You're like, twice my size and-' She pokes him in the chest, '- damn, that's a lot of muscle.'

He grunts. 'Okay,' he says, shifting to his other foot and looking away from her. 'Uh. Thanks.'

'Whatever.' She shakes her head. 'Let's just get out of here before we get more… company.' She gives one of the beheaded zombies a kick with the toe of her boot and shudders. 'I'm Skye, by the way.'

'I'm Grant,' he says.

She smiles. She thinks it might be the first time she's smiled since this whole mess started. 'Nice to meet you, Grant,' she says.


End file.
